


How Long Does it Take for Stockholm Syndrome to Kick In?

by MotherGoddamn, Rebness



Category: Glee
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:05:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherGoddamn/pseuds/MotherGoddamn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/pseuds/Rebness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt Hummel awakens bound to an unfamiliar bed. It's not the first time...</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Long Does it Take for Stockholm Syndrome to Kick In?

 

He struggled out of a dreamless sleep, taking several minutes to find the strength to open his eyes and move his head slightly against the stacked pillows.

He groaned as he did so. His head was _killing_ him.

The room was sparsely decorated, the only source of light in the dim surroundings being the snow falling softly against the little window to his right. The room was one of those awfully earnest affairs, all dark wood and austere furniture punctuated by chintz and an obnoxious embroidered picture in colours much too loud which announced, _home sweet home!_

But whose home?

'Hello?' he called hesitantly. 'I think I'm having a lucid dream again...'

That was it. Sleep paralysis. If only he could move his limbs. It felt like he was chained to the bed, but he always had that sensation when he had these nightmares. He looked down at bedspread, which in its pinks, yellows and green polka dots looked like something from Pee-Wee Herman's house, and gasped in horror.

He was chained to the bed.

Chains criss-crossed around his torso, all the way up to his clavicle. His hands were bound by cuffs attached to the metal poles around the bed, as were his ankles. Terror crashed through him.

'Help! Anybody! Help! My name's Kurt Hummel, I've been kidnapped! Help me!'

The door at the end of the room swung quietly open. He stopped screaming and peered at the figure enmeshed in shadow. 'Who are you?' he choked. 'Everyone will be looking for me, so you'd better--'

'Kurt,' said the figure softly. 'I told you I'd take care of you, and I will.' His captor stepped forward, clad in lilac, with luminous yellow trousers, deep red sneakers and one of those bow ties which had stopped being cute about 12 years ago.

'Seriously, Blaine?' he said. 'I'm thirty fucking years old! You need a new pasttime.'

Blaine's eyes were black in the dim light of the cabin. 'We _will_ be together.'

'You said that at Thanksgiving! And Christmas! And New Years, and--'

'International Women's Day,' intoned Blaine. 'That was a wonderful time. We had that picnic by the lake, do you remember?'

'I was tied to a _tree!_ '

'I already explained to you why that was _your_ fault!' Blaine threw up his hands and then shook his head in dismissal. 'I told you I would never, never, ever do it again.'

Kurt shook his bound wrists in response.

'Shh, shh. I know. I feel emotional, too.' He removed a remote from his pocket. 'How about--'

'I swear to God if you click that thing and I hear the opening melody to anything I am going to kill you to death!' Kurt struggled on the bed. 'You can't keep doing this! I have a job, Blaine! Do you how many mental health days I've had to take? They had to make amendments to my contract!'

Blaine pouted and put the remote away. 'Well, Sam is going to be very disappointed. And the rest of Glee club. And your father. And all my twitter followers.'

'Oh, my God! How do you keep roping people into drinking the Kool-Aid?'

'Because they believe in love, Kurt! Love, love love!' He twirled happily.

'Fuck you so hard, you insane fucker.'

'Do you remember Beatles week?' said Blaine wistfully. 'That was such a good time.'

'Yeah, when you drugged every--'

''Hush,' he said. 'You were so happy when you said yes in front of everyone you had ever met in your entire life. It was such a spontaneous and romantic gesture-- everyone said so. Even that nice police-man.'

'I broke it off!'

'You never took the ring off, though.'

'Because of the _super-glue!_ '

'Kurt, don't fight this.' He clicked his fingers and, inexplicably, a band started playing outside.

'What the fu--- wait, I know this tune,' said Kurt.

'I do so love the Beatles,' said Blaine conversationally, as he moved towards the closet and reached inside for something. 'They have an underrated sense of fun, you know.'

'Oh, yes,' said Kurt. 'One of their novelty songs-- why are you holding a hammer?'

Blaine giggled, stroking the smooth steel. 'Oh, Kurt!' He moved towards the bed and touched softly at Kurt's ankle. 'It would so much easier to show you how lucky you are to have me if you stopped running away all the time.' He frowned and glared at Kurt's feet. 'These pesky things.'

'Oh, sh--'

'Oh, _chéri_!' Blaine nodded happily. 'Sam! Could you come in here?' he called before leaning forward. 'He's going to hold you down. In case you become overwhelmed with gratitude and try to hug me.'

'Get away from my feet, Blaine, put that block of wood down! No, no-- Sam! Sam! Get this mania--- seriously, Sam, your hair has dead birds in it, it's disgusting!' Kurt screamed.

Blaine smiled at him, his face radiating pure love. 'Don't worry, I know that Maxwell's Silver Hammer is supposed to come down on your head, but I decided to give it a quirky Blaine-style makeover. Hold him still, Sam. Hold him still...'

 

**The End (You dirty birds)**


End file.
